The Barber Pole

The barber pole goes round and round, A relic of the past. There aren’t many to be found, A gem not meant to last. Those jaunty stripes – red, white and blue Would spiral out in front, So if your haircut time was due Then you could end your hunt. But once you found your barber, you Knew you would always go To Lou, like Burt and Joel* would do Or like my son, to Joe. For females, poles did not apply. We wouldn’t have intruded Upon that lair, though who knows why We women were excluded. *my brothers